The Flat and the Husband’s Grumbles
I’ve got my own little flat—cosy, with flowers on the windowsill and an old armchair I adore. After the wedding, Daniel and I decided to live here, and I thought it’d be our little slice of paradise. But within months, my husband started moaning about the commute. At first, I assumed he was just tired, but now it’s a daily soundtrack, and I’m at a loss. Should I cave and move, or stand my ground because this is *my* home, *my* castle? One thing’s certain: his whingeing’s wearing me down, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion this is just the start of our troubles.
We married six months ago. Before that, he lived with his parents across town, while I was in this flat—bought with parental help and a mortgage. It’s a one-bed, compact but snug for two. I poured my heart into it: walls painted warm beige, curtains I picked myself, shelves crammed with books. When we discussed where to live post-wedding, I suggested my place. Daniel agreed: “Emily, your flat’s closer to the centre, and owning beats renting.” I was over the moon, picturing cosy dinners, film nights, dreams woven together. Turns out, I might’ve been a tad optimistic.
The first weeks were grand. Daniel helped spruce the place up, we bought a new sofa, even joked our flat was a “love nest.” Then he started coming home gloomier than a rainy Manchester afternoon. “Emily,” he’d grumble, “took me *ninety minutes* today. The M25’s a car park.” His office is on the outskirts, and yes, it’s an hour’s drive—more with traffic. I’d sympathise, suggest leaving earlier or trying backroads. No dice. “You don’t get it,” he’d mutter. “Three hours daily just commuting. This isn’t living.”
I tried patience. “Dan, let’s brainstorm. Fancy a newer car? Or what about that car-share scheme?” He’d wave me off. “Won’t help, Em. We should live nearer my work.” *Nearer*? As in… move? I asked outright, and he shrugged. “Well, yeah. Renting something local’d be easier.” I nearly spat out my tea. *Rent*? And my flat? *My* home, the one I’ve poured five years of mortgage payments into, lovingly decorated? Just abandon it because *he’s* inconvenienced?
I explained this flat wasn’t just bricks to me—it was my first big grown-up step, my independence. I’m proud of it, even if it’s small and not in Chelsea. But Daniel gave me this patronising look. “Em, it’s just a flat. We could let it and live somewhere that *works*.” *Works for him*! What about me? My job’s a *twenty-minute walk* from here. I love this neighbourhood—the park where I jog, the café where I meet mates, the sweet old lady next door who brings me scones. Why should *I* uproot?
The tension’s thickening like porridge. Now Dan gripes about *everything*. The flat’s “cramped,” the upstairs neighbours “sound like elephants,” or it “smells musty.” *Musty*? It’s a 90s build, and I *just* refurbished! I’m starting to wonder if it’s not just the commute. Maybe he resents living in *my* space. Once I asked, “Dan, if we lived with your parents, would you moan this much?” He hesitated, then grunted, “At least it’s bigger.” *Bigger*? So my flat’s not good enough?
I rang Mum for advice. She sighed. “Love, marriage is compromise. If he’s miserable, meet halfway.” But *how*? Let my flat and move for *his* convenience? Or stay and endure the grumbles? I floated another idea: could Dan find a job nearer? He’s an engineer—loads of openings. He scoffed. “Are you joking? I’ve ten years at this firm. I’m not quitting.” So *I’m* expected to sacrifice instead?
Now I’m stuck. Part of me wants to dig in—this is *my* home, I deserve comfort too. But another part fears this’ll wreck us. I love Daniel; I don’t want rows, but his moaning’s driving me bonkers. I even feel *guilty*, like I’m torturing him. Then I think: *He knew where we’d live when he agreed. Why’s it all on me to change?*
I’ve given myself till month’s end to decide. Maybe rent somewhere midway? But the thought of strangers in my flat—or it sitting empty—makes my chest ache. Or perhaps Dan’ll snap out of it? Dunno. For now, I’m biting my tongue when he starts on the traffic spiel. One thing’s clear: this is *my* home, and I won’t give it up. Not even for love. Or maybe love *shouldn’t* force you to choose?
